


With a Fringe on Top

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Douglas is a secret cuddle hedgehog, Hair, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Martin's hands have minds of their own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin really, really likes Douglas's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Douglas Richardson, as he is in so many things, is absolutely astounding in bed. And not just in the usual wink-wink-nudge-nudge sense. He has the uncanny ability to be exactly what his partner needs, even when he’s deeply in the arms of Morpheus. On cold nights, he radiates heat like a furnace and becomes lovely and cuddly to snuggle up to. In the summer, he keeps to his side of the bed, settling for tangling his feet with his bedfellows. His many partners with longer hair were in awe of his ability to share even the smallest of sleeping quarters without requiring a two am contortion to extricate their hair from under his arm.   
The trait Martin likes best of all, however, is Douglas’s ability to sleep through nearly anything. It means that on the long nights when Martin finds himself fighting his chronic insomnia, doubts and worries niggling at his mind like kites over a piece of a carrion, he can indulge in what is quickly becoming his second-favorite manual obsession—the feel of Douglas’s silken (if dyed) locks running through his fingers.

Martin’s not sure if Douglas knows about his preferred method of comfort, but he can’t deny there’s something soothing about petting Douglas when he’s feeling out of sorts. Watching the dark strands part and give way beneath Martin’s palm and resettle gives Martin a Zen-like peace. And on this night, of all nights, after Martin’s faced the prospect of losing what has essentially become his family to an ill-placed goose and an engine not quite within normal limits of being-on-fire-ness, he needs the comfort more than he can possibly hope to put words to. 

After an awkward hour at the airfield where none of them wants to be the first to leave until finally Carolyn finally huffs and drags her son away claiming a needy dog, Douglas and Martin drive home in silence. Martin’s hand finds several excuses during the trip to adjust the heating slightly or cycle through the radio stations, brushing over Douglas’s on the gear shift in the process, though neither man makes mention of it. After a quick meal and the traditional post-flight division of laundry, the two men head to bed, curling together for comfort more than warmth. Douglas, true to form, falls asleep almost immediately, snuffling like a contended hedgehog into the hollow of Martin’s throat. Martin, however, cannot banish the what-ifs from his mind and spends several hours in miserable silence with his nose buried in Douglas’s hair and an arm curled around the older man’s shoulders.

There’s nothing Douglas could say to make this easier for Martin, to banish his insecurities, and Martin is grateful one of them is getting some rest, at least. Douglas shuffles a bit closer in his sleep, and a bit of his fringe flops over his eye. Martin reaches to smooth it back into place, and then carries on carding through the dark locks a bit, until his whirling mind at last stops and he drops off, one hand settled on the nape of Douglas’s neck and the other cupping the back of his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Posted in MJN’s office, next to the (in)famous wall chart, is a list of customer attributes put there by Arthur in a fit of studiousness and left there by Carolyn in a fit of amusement. Although the list is Carolyn’s brainchild, there is only one entry actually in her precise handwriting: “a carrier of pestilence.” It’s the result of a truly horrific bout of the flu one of their last-minute bookings gave to poor Arthur, who then ever-so-helpfully passed it around the entirety of the airfield. 

Martin catches it immediately after Carolyn, who clearly is still well-versed in matters maternal when it comes to ill offspring, and Douglas takes every flight alone for nearly two weeks. His oft-touted luck apparently means he manages to avoid catching it himself, remaining hale and cheerful if a little weary. Once Martin is fit enough to fly, or rather Carolyn and Douglas agree with Martin’s self-assessment that he’s ready to fly, Douglas is awarded a flight off and Martin spends the weekend in Aberdeen impatiently waiting for their customer to accept the cargo shipment. He’s a bit more worn out from the prolonged illness than he’d expected, and he wants nothing more to go home, eat a Douglas Richardson special, and spend the evening cuddling on the couch.

He arrives home late in the afternoon on Sunday expecting to find Douglas making tea in preparation for his return. But he encounters no such Sky God in the kitchen, the sitting room or the back garden. He finally stumbles on just the man firmly wrapped in their duvet with Martin’s threadbare quilt added to the pile. He’s so thoroughly covered all Martin can see is a bit of fringe sticking out between the pillow and the duvet, looking limp and slightly less lustrous than usual. Martin shakes his head with a bit of fondness and drops his flight bag with a resounding thud on the floor. Douglas barely stirs, and instead of the cheerful face Martin’s been waiting for all weekend he’s treated to the sight of his partner’s eyebrows furrowing in unconscious pain.

Quietly, Martin makes his way to the bed and sits gingerly on the edge. It’s unusual for Douglas to take naps in the middle of the day and this atypical behavior has him a bit concerned. He carefully tugs at the blankets at the head of the bed and makes a small _tsk_ in the back of his throat as he uncovers a sweaty, shivering Douglas. The older man’s face is ashen and waxy, except for twin slashes of color over his cheekbones, and the pieces of his fringe that aren’t sticking up from the static of the pillow are plastered to his forehead with sweat. Martin palms Douglas’s forehead and then rests the back of his knuckles over the red cheeks, wincing at the fever he finds there.

“Douglas,” he whispers, shaking the covered shoulder gently. “Can you wake up for me?”

A muffled hmpf is his only response, so he shakes a bit more firmly. “Come on. Just for a bit, I only want to see you for a second.”

Finally, Douglas wearily blinks his eyes open, squinting in the dim light filtering between the curtains.

“Hey there,” Martin whispers. “How long have you been ill?”

“Martin,” Douglas croaks, then clears his throat which helps less than he clearly expects it to. “You’re early. Trip ends Sunday.”

Martin gives Douglas a small smile as he helps him sit up. “It _is_ Sunday,” he says and a frisson of concern slides up his spine at the look of confusion that crosses Douglas’s face. It’s an unusual occurrence, but Martin can’t really take too much enjoyment out of it. There’s something inherently wrong with a Douglas who isn’t fully in command of the situation. Martin runs down his internal illness checklist.

“You never answered my question. Since Friday?”

Douglas’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Thursday evening,” he replies, earning a gentle glare from Martin.

“We’ve texted since then! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Wasn’t important. Nothing you could have done,” Douglas mutters.

Martin bites back a retort, focusing instead on practical matters. “When was the last time you ate anything?” he asks as he heads for the en suite for a glass of water.

Douglas doesn’t answer until Martin sits back at his side, taking a sip of water and then shrugging despondently. Martin takes the glass back in return for handing a thermometer to Douglas, who puts it to its intended use, closes his eyes and rests his temple on Martin’s shoulder. This physical affection is not unusual; Douglas has always been ready with friendly claps on the back or arms ‘round shoulders but it’s usually to provide comfort, not seek it out.

The thermometer beeps, displaying a number that’s high enough to concern Martin but not enough to merit a trip to A&E. He takes the instrument, laying it on the bedside table.

“You should probably eat something,” he says. “How about something easy? A bit of soup? Mug of tea?” Douglas only harrumphs grumpily and turns his head further into Martin’s neck. Martin reaches out to run his fingers through the slightly-graying hair at Douglas’s temple, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You might as well pick something, you stubborn sod,” he smiles fondly. “You know I’m just going to bug you until you do.”

Douglas sighs a bit and mumbles a preference for soup. Martin gently extricates himself from his cuddly octopus of a partner and hurries down to the kitchen to reheat some of the stew Douglas keeps in the freezer for nights when they get back late from flights and neither feels like cooking. He only dishes out a half-portion, but he adds a few saltines and a glass of orange juice to the tray. Douglas is dozing a bit when he reenters their bedroom, but awakes just enough to eat most of the soup and drink half of the juice. He’s clearly flagging, though, forcing Martin to remove the tray rather than take the risk of his first officer face planting in the bowl.

Gently, he prods Douglas to lie back down, taking off the quilt and folding it for the end of the bed. Douglas makes a small unhappy sound, but Martin stands firm. “You’re too hot as it is,” he admonishes. “Can risk you getting heat stroke or something.” Douglas just turns his back to Martin’s side of the bed, wrapping his arms around his middle miserably. Martin takes pity, toeing off his shoes and climbing into bed behind the larger man. He’s not used to being the bigger spoon, and it’s difficult for him to wrap himself fully around Douglas. Eventually, he gives up, or rather Douglas forces him to give up when he abruptly turns over, shoves Martin onto his back, and throws an arm and a leg over the smaller man. Martin is infinitely more comfortable in this position, if a bit hot with a human furnace covering him, and his right hand automatically find its way to its customary positions on Douglas’s waist. His other hand is occupied in massaging the knots it can reach on the back of Douglas’s neck and the tops of his shoulders, but after a weekend of flying solo, it tires quickly and he settles for gently scratching behind Douglas’s ears and ruffling the hair at the crown of his head. He falls asleep to the gentle susurration of his fingers over Douglas’s scalp and the familiar snuffling from his collarbone.


	3. Chapter 3

“This is ridiculous,” Douglas grumbles.

Or, at least that’s what Martin assumes he says. The actual words are muffled by the pillow Douglas currently has his face smashed into. Martin chuckles gently and continues systematically combing through the thick black strands, parting the hair and examining Douglas’s scalp intently before moving on to the next section.

“The things people do for their children,” he says, patting the latest section back into place and moving up further. He gently presses two fingers to Douglas’s temple, turning his head slightly to start examining the next section.

“What do you know about it? You don’t even have children,” Douglas snipes and then immediately grimaces. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Martin shrugs, a bit stung, but his hands never falter. “’slright,” he says. “It’s true. I’ve never had children, and I’m pretty sure my current partner won’t be able to give me any.”

Douglas snorts. “Probably not, no.”

Martin gives a small smile and pauses in his examination briefly to scratch behind Douglas’s ear. Douglas humms contentedly, like a cat and the two of them fall silent temporarily.

 

The quiet is broken by Martin snerking softly to himself. Douglas has let himself be lulled into a comfortable doze, mumbling “what?”

Martin grins and tugs affectionately at the cowlick on the back of Douglas’s head. “Nothing, really,” he replies. “I was just thinking if the guys at the Flap and Throttle could see you now. How many Sky Gods do you know who have to get checked for nits?”

Douglas moans playfully and presses his face further into his pillow. “Good Lord. Carolyn would be insufferable.”

“I don’t know about that,” Martin replies without pausing his ministrations. “After all, Arthur is her son. She must have done this check herself. Especially since he seems the type to have lent his hat to anyone who needed it.”

“Mmmm.”

“Or his comb.”

“…” 

“Or his pants.”

Silence from below. Martin marvels again at how, in this alone, Douglas is extraordinarily predictable. Six-and-a-half minutes of petting and he’s out like a light for at least an hour, like clockwork. Martin doesn’t stop the sectioning and examination, even when he’s covered every inch of Douglas’s head. As much as the older man enjoys having his head stroked, Martin revels in it. He’s catalogued the color of every strand, has secret bets with himself about which sections will go gray next, and takes an almost unholy delight in tracing the paths of the curls over Douglas’s ears and the nape of his neck when he’s gone a little longer than usual between haircuts. But perhaps his favorite part is the center-parted fringe, which has a tendency to flop into Douglas’s eyes during moments of great exertion. Martin has lost whole years of his life studying its bounce and sway. 

He spends the next forty minutes pretending his fingers are a formation of Spitfires, parting the dark clouds of Douglas’s hair, leaving contrails in their wake and running into opposing squadrons of Messerschmitts until his hands cramp. Then he simply lies beside Douglas, tucks an errant half-curl behind his ear and watches him sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a cold and rainy Saturday, and Martin arrives home absolutely drenched, exhausted from a long-distance delivery. He finds Douglas stretched out on the sofa, working on the crossword from the morning’s paper. 

“Honey, I’m home.”

Douglas tips his head back, smiling upside-down at Martin.

“Welcome home, Darling. Long day.”

Martin gives an affirmative-sounding huff, stripping off his sodden jacket and toeing his shoes in the entryway before heading into the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet clothing in the hallway. A long while later, Martin emerges from the bedroom, slightly warmer in multiple layers topped by one of Douglas’s jumpers. He smiles readily enough, but there’s a wan quality to it. That and the tense line of his shoulders tells Douglas something is on his mind. He doesn’t ask any questions, out of long experience in dealing with Martin’s upper lip, so stiff it could compete with Nelson’s in Trafalgar Square. If he asks questions, Martin will clam up and work himself into a state and be unable to sleep. Given they have a long flight in the morning, Douglas is inclined to making his captain as happy as possible. A content Martin is a sight to behold; a sleep-deprived one somewhat less so.

Martin stops at Douglas’s shoulder. His hands make unconscious grabbing motions, and he looks on the verge of asking for something he thinks he shouldn’t want. Douglas just gives him his most guileless grin, the one Martin knows for sure is fake, and raises an eyebrow at him. Martin’s mouth opens and shuts like a fish and he starts to turn towards the overstuffed armchair in the corner. Before he can leave, though, Douglas grabs his wrist.

“Not even a kiss, Martin? Disappointing.”

Martin actually looks a bit ashamed, and bends down to drop a peck on Douglas’s lips. Douglas doesn’t let him go, though, holding him close for a longer, _friendlier_ kiss. Martin goes nearly limp, but follows Douglas easily enough as the older man sits up, tugging the wrist he’s still holding until Martin drops down with a huff in the vacated space.

Douglas settles down with his head in Martin’s lap and pulls his ink pen from behind his ear.

“I’ve been waiting all day to ask you this. Fourteen down: ‘An admonishment from Frankie’”

Martin looks down at him. “Relax.”

“Trust me, dear. I’m _quite_ relaxed.”

“No,” Martin huffs. “That’s the answer. Frankie says relax. It was a very popular song in the ‘80s. Surely you must have heard it in a pub at some point?”

Douglas simply shrugs his shoulders and carefully doesn’t mention that what he remembers of that decade involved empty bottles and unexplained black eyes and bruises. Martin seems to realize he’s hit a sore point and rests his right hand over Douglas’s left collarbone in gentle apology. His left arm lies on the armrest, the tips of fingers barely grazing the ends of Douglas’s hair. He doesn’t seem inclined to talk at all, a miasma of misery surrounding him.

 _Well,_ Douglas thinks to himself. _that simply won’t do._ So he arches his back a bit, in the guise of adjusting his position on the couch, bringing his head in coincidental contact with Martin’s dangling hand. Martin’s subconscious takes over and he starts tracing absentminded shapes on Douglas’s scalp with his long fingers. Douglas hums a happy little tune and ponders a particularly tough clue. After several minutes, his patience is rewarded. 

“Douglas?”

“Hmm?”

“Are we….alright?”

Douglas refrains from rolling his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Of course, Martin. What would make you think we weren’t?”

Martin gives a small shrug, as his hands trace the shape of a musical note in Douglas’s hair. “No reason.”

“If you say so.” And Douglas goes back to the crossword.

“Well.” Martin pauses. “It’s just…I mean, it’s like you say, isn’t it? I’m me and you’re you and I’m not you, I’m me, and I could be more you and less…me, if you liked. I mean, you must wish sometimes for someone who’s---and well, I’m not, am I , and I could be more—I could try at least.”

Douglas starts to become concerned Martin will pass out, he hasn’t taken a breath in so long.

“ _Martin_ ” he admonishes gently. “How long have you known me?”

Martin does the sums quickly in his head. “Nearly a decade now.”

“And in all that time, have you ever known me to do something I wasn’t entirely happy to do?”

Martin ponders this for a bit. “Well, that time in Athens—“

He’s cut off by Douglas. “I still got something out of it, didn’t I? And those olives turned out to be very handy in Doha on the next trip.”

“Well, no then.”

“Exactly,” Douglas says. “And what makes you think I would stay in a relationship that I didn’t enjoy immensely?”

Martin has nothing to say in return, but he leaves a question mark tingling behind Douglas’s left ear. The older man looks fills in another clue in the crossword and offers, casually, “Tell me about your job today.”

Martin’s fingers tighten just a fraction before relaxing again. “It was for that music shop, the one down by St. Mary’s? Their van broke down and they had some instruments to deliver. Lots of posh people.”

“Oh, how _lovely_ ,” Douglas grimaces. He has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going. 

“Out of curiosity,” Martin asks “How many languages do you speak?”

The apparent non sequitur doesn’t throw Douglas off, as in tune with the thought processes of the average Martin Crieff moreso than an average watcher.  
“French and German reasonably well, passable in Spanish and Russian. And I flatter myself that my English is nearly fluent.”

All he gets in return is a soft hum from Martin. “And you sing. And play the piano. Both quite well, in fact.”

Oh, dear.

“Martin, darling, what’s your point?”

Martin shrugs again and Douglas feels a frowning face on the top of his head, right where Martin thinks his hair is thickest and will more likely mask the movement. The man’s subconscious will draw incidental shapes all over Douglas’s head, but Martin only consciously draws names and emotions where he thinks Douglas won’t notice. “I just sometimes think that you and I are different…that is, that I’m not…I mean, you’re very good at keeping your secrets and how would I know if…I can’t even speak another language or anything!” A gusty sigh ruffles Douglas’s hair from above.

“Hmmm.” Douglas sighs a bit, lays the paper on his stomach, folds his hands and adopts his most sincere look. “Martin Crieff, I can honestly say that not only am I happier with you than I have been in a long time, I become happier every day. There is nothing you could do, nothing you could change about yourself, that would make me any happier. I would think we’ve been together long enough for you to know that about me, but if not then I’m clearly not doing enough to show you.”

Martin’s hands still, bracketing Douglas’s face. “No! Douglas, I know! I just…worry, sometimes.”

Douglas reaches up for the back of Martin’s neck and pulls him down for another kiss. “I know. It’s one of the things I’ve grown to adore about you. But you also trust me, with a panoply of things you probably shouldn’t, so I’m asking you to trust me in this. We’re better than alright, I am perfectly happy, and I can’t imagine being anywhere or with anyone else.”

Martin sighs a bit as Douglas resumes his former position and his hands resume their stroking, but much less frenetically than before. It's clear he doesn't quite believe Douglas. Not yet at least, but he's getting there. And so the two of them sit, listening to the rain lash the windows, eventually dozing off, one of Martin’s hands covering Douglas’s over his heart and the other tangled in his dark hair. Neither of them can imagine a better place to be.


End file.
